Early Promises
by Monker
Summary: It's funny what things come back to mind when you have nothing but time to think. And being alone on a heap of metal out in the middle of space, that's certainly time to think. Coulson considers his decision to make a deal with the devil, and what exactly that means for the people he left behind. Rated for mild language. Spoilers for the season four finale. Reference to Philinda


So that was a crazy tag at the end of the season four finale, right? Well, this is my interpretation of what that scene meant to imply. So, you know. SPOILER ALERT obviously. I don't think the rest of the team is up on that space station with Phil. Hopefully by the end of the story, you'll understand why I think that is.

But I just couldn't shake the idea for this story. So only a few hours after the episode aired, I was writing this story as a way to decompress things. Obviously, it stands a risk of being completely contradicted once season five picks up the pieces. But I hope you are still able to enjoy my little theory fic/emotional roller coaster in the meantime.

A big shout out and thanks, as always, to the fabulous kaheels for proofing this fic in record time. You are amazing and I love you!

Now without further ado, on to the story! Deep breath in...deep breath out...here we go!

* * *

 _"Can I go with you to the drug store, dad?" the boy asked._

 _Robert Coulson poked his head out from underneath the hood of the 1962 corvette and peered over at his son. Phillip held something delicately in his hands, as if it were as fragile as a baby bird. "Wasn't plannin' on making a trip to the drug store today, kiddo," the man stated, drawing the grease towel from his shoulder and wiping some of the filth from his hands._

 _Phillip looked crestfallen. "Well...when you go later...if you go, can I go too?"_

 _The father turned his lips down in something reminiscent of a frown and nodded his head. "I don't see why not." Then, nodding towards the boy's precious cargo, he asked, "Whatcha got there?"_

 _Phillip's eyes lit up as he took a few steps closer to his dad. He tilted the cup of his hands so his father could see the card right-side up. "It's number 6," he said with a fair amount of pride. "Now I'm only missing 1, 2, 5, 8, and 9."_

 _Robert bent over to examine the card, not even trying to reach for it, knowing full well his son would shrink away before letting the man's greasy mitts touch that treasured card. A heroic Captain America was depicted on the field of battle, valiantly stopping bullets with his star-spangled shield, a fearlessness in his stance. Robert smiled at the boy. "Very impressive, Phillip. And in good condition too. Where'd you get it?"_

 _"Stewart Prouse traded me it for a Hank Aaron rookie card."_

 _Robert's brow knit together in confusion. "Since when have you had any baseball cards?"_

 _"I don't. That's why I wanted to go with you to the drugstore. Mr. Hamilton has some for sale there."_

 _Robert reached out and touched his son on the shoulder, a light touch, like he meant to stop him in his tracks. "Wait a minute, are you telling me you traded with a boy for a card you didn't have?"_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"You promised that boy a Hank Aaron card, but you don't have it?"_

 _"But I can get one. We just have to go to the-."_

 _"But that's not how baseball cards work, buddy."_

 _The boy copied his father's earlier look of confusion, his little brow furrowing as his 8-year-old logic tried to match that of the 30-year-old man. His father explained, "You have to buy a pack and there's no telling what will be inside. You might not find a Hank Aaron card right away. It could take you a hundred packs before you finally find one."_

 _Phillip hesitated, his expression becoming a little worried. "How many dollars is that?"_

 _Robert just nodded at his son. "It's a lot."_

 _"But," his little voice began, distraught, "that's the only one Stewart said he wanted. He said he would trade me this Captain America card but only if I gave him a Hank Aaron."_

 _"But you don't have one, kiddo."_

 _"But...but I thought I could get him one." The boy was almost crying now, looking down at the card._

 _"That's the tough thing about making promises, son. You need to be careful that it's a promise you can for sure keep."_

 _"So...what happens to the number 6?" Phillip asked, looking up at his dad with a look of expectant dread._

 _"Well...do you think it's fair to make a promise you can't keep like that?"_

 _His eyes dropped to his shoes. This started out as such a good day. "No," he said, deep and pouty and with barely any volume._

 _"So we should probably go give it back to him, what do you think?"_

 _Phillip sighed. Yeah, this was a really lousy day. "Okay dad."_

* * *

It's funny what memories come back to mind when you've got nothing but time to think. Coulson stared out the window at that same, unchanging starscape, the never-ending river of lazy space rocks drifting by. Nowhere to be, and in no rush to get there. Sort of like him.

He should probably be getting ready for bed. There was nothing outside to definitively establish this time as "night," but his internal clock was winding down and he knew he would need sleep soon. Plus, his tasks were done for the day. It would be another four hours or so until he was needed again, and if something should arise in the meantime, the alarms would wake him. Either way, it was probably a good time to get some sleep.

He turned and walked over to his little control pad and flipped a few switches, the heavy metal wall sliding into place over his window, blocking out the light from the stars. He took off his jacket and walked over to the chair by his door. Phil froze.

He stared at the chair for a few seconds, and then let the garment fall to the floor beside it. He didn't really have a good reason for that. He had put the jacket on the back of that chair every "night" since he got here. Countless nights. And then he reclaimed the jacket from that same place the following "morning," same as always. No good reason to leave the jacket on the floor except that...well...it was different. Variety. And why the hell not?

Phil looked down at his wrinkling jacket, impassive. His mind fired back to another memory. A woman, removing his crisp suit jacket and tossing it carelessly on the floor. He had grimaced then. He didn't grimace now. Wrinkles tomorrow. That'll be different. Different is good. Without a reason to keep looking, he eventually turned and walked over to his little bed, removing his boots and laying down. He turned on his side and stared out at his cold room.

Unexpected and unwanted, the heap of cloth on his floor kept drawing his gaze like a magnet. He stared at the jacket, feeling it lull his mind almost into a hypnosis. His thoughts returned to that woman, but a different memory. The heat of her kiss against his lips almost as fiery as her red hair. The gentle, but eager push of her weight as she urged him to lay back against his mattress. He hadn't thought back on that memory in ages. He had almost forgotten it had happened to him. It felt so far removed from himself now, and he embraced his willingness to forget it. He called on that forgetfulness now, keen to forget that woman, and truly, every woman. Those were dangerous thoughts to have out here.

Phil grunted and rose from his bed, marching over and picking up the jacket in a sweeping grasp. He forcefully hung the thing on its chair and stared at it. No memories. Not tonight. Especially not of that. If he let himself wander down those mental roads, it wouldn't take him long to circle back to thoughts of a different woman, one of shorter stature and a bigger attitude. The only one who really mattered.

Too late.

Phil sighed and let his head tip forward against the cold, steel wall of his chosen prison, one hand still resting on the chair and the offending jacket.

Melinda.

He pinched his eyes tightly shut and sighed again. God, he missed her. How long had it been now? He didn't even know anymore. With a thousand suns and a thousand moons outside his window, he had lost all track of time. Nothing revolved around him anymore. Something poetic in that, he supposed. He measured time now based off of that ever-increasing sense of loneliness in the pit of his stomach. But that was an imperfect measurement, because its rate of growth ebbed and flowed. And in moments like these, for example, when that perfect face returned to his mind's eye, that lonely feeling made it feel like he had spent centuries in this place.

Another memory. _"It's been eighteen days since your last episode." "Seventeen." "Eighteen. Which means you're due for another one." "Overdue...and I'm tired of fighting it." "So don't...that's why I'm here."_ He remembered the weight of her hand as she grabbed his shoulder. He had been broken and tired then, only a fraction of the broken and tired he was now. And her firm, but gentle hand was urging him to let go. To let himself give in, and she would be there to pick up the pieces afterward.

Coulson lifted a hand to his shoulder, where hers used to rest, and he grabbed himself there, wishing he could feel her skin underneath his. That's all he wanted really. Just a touch. He wasn't greedy. Just the ability to share a single human touch with her again. Or even share a glance. That would be enough.

He wasn't even sure if he shared the same galaxy with her anymore. He tried to figure out where he was located exactly, which cosmos, but that hadn't been involved in the ghost's sparse instructions. His familiarity with astronomy was somewhat limited, but that didn't stop him from trying to map out the clusters of stars he could see from his window. He didn't recognize most of them. He always cared more for history than science, and now he regretted that about himself.

In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter if he knew where exactly he was. He had a job to do. A very terrible, very important job. And this was the deal he had made with the Ghost Rider. The lives of his team, the defeat of Aida and the Darkhold, in trade for this. A modern day Atlas, with a dash of Sisyphus thrown in. Somewhere on earth, his team still lived and breathed. She still lived and breathed. And in order to keep it that way, he had to stay, warding off worlds and threats he never knew existed.

The rational side of his brain knew it was worth it, knew he chose the right thing. But the irrational side, the side committed to his own feelings, wished he had the choice to do over again. Wished he had worked a little harder to come up with a different plan to take down Aida. He wished, at the very least, that he had not left without saying goodbye.

Coulson laughed a little then, his head still leaning against his wall. He rolled to the side of his head and then pushed off of the wall, standing straight once again. He laughed because he knew how preposterous that was, to think that he could confess such a plan to Melinda May and NOT expect her to break his legs to keep him from doing it. No, it had to be this way.

Feeling even more drained than a moment ago, he crossed his room once again and returned to his bed. He wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't alone. Laying down flat on his back, he let his right hand draw a clump of the blanket into his fist, putting some tangible substance into his grasp, giving him something to hold. And he pretended it was her hand.

He never did this sort of thing on earth. Never let himself pretend or indulge in a fantasy life. But here he did. Here he had to. So he held her hand and tried not to cry. "I'm so sorry," he spoke aloud. "I handled it wrong, from the very beginning. I handled you wrong."

Another memory. _"When we get out of this mess, we take a couple steps back and, start again. Then, when it feels right, maybe we open another bottle?" "...Deal." "Deal...see you on the other side."_ Phil groaned, his face twisting into a frustrated mess. He let go of her hand and flung the blanket to the side, sitting up again and slinging his legs over the side of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands with another groan from deep within his throat. "Fucking...idiot!" he cursed himself.

Here he was, half a century later and still learning the same lessons he learned as a child. "Early promises," he said. Only this time, instead of a stupid trading card, it was a heart. It was a future. He was still making promises he had no hope of keeping. And he wasn't sure who was hurt most through their breaking.

Rising from his bed, he returned to his little control panel on the wall. There was no use trying to sleep now. A few switches later and the expansive void was opening itself to him again. He walked over to the window and lifted an arm to lean against the glass. "I'm so sorry, Melinda," he confessed. "I'm so sorry. If I ever see you again..." but then he stopped.

No.

No more promises.

Phil sighed and stared out the window, wondering if it was nighttime outside her window right now. Wondering if she stared out at the sky and wondered about him. Who knows...maybe one or two of these stars were visible to them both tonight.

And there it was. One more shared moment between them. That's all he could really ask for.

* * *

Author's Note:

The flashes of memory containing the woman with red hair are actually in vague reference to a previous story of mine, titled The Doors Between Them. You can find it under my profile if you are interested in figuring out what that was talking about.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this (it basically wrecked me writing it). And PLEASE feel free to leave a review telling me what you think. I always love hearing your feedback.


End file.
